


The Gift of Fear

by shewhoguards



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhoguards/pseuds/shewhoguards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Eugenides arrived at her window without warning, Irene nearly shot him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanfic_nonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfic_nonnie/gifts).



> Thank you to Liviania for beta-ing!

The first time Eugenides arrived at her window without warning, Irene nearly shot him.

Perhaps a moment before he had arrived she had been thoroughly occupied working her way through a stack of documents and letters but something had made her look up. She had moved on pure instinct, her brain not registering what it had picked up — maybe a noise, maybe a movement at the window – before her hand reached for the small pistol she kept safely in her room. Perhaps her first instinct should have been to call for her guards, but Irene had learned early and well that in times of true danger you were your own best protection.

The weight in her hand was familiar, and she turned to aim it, sighting quickly and accurately before her brain finally realised what she was about to do and screamed a warning.

The shape silhouetted in the window had only one hand.

That was likely the point where someone else might have dropped the gun, or at least pointed it elsewhere. Normal reactions might have been shock, horror at what she might have done, anger at Eugenides risking something so foolish.

Irene simply adjusted her aim slightly to make it a non-lethal shot and queued up all of those emotions to consider later. She knew, perhaps better than anyone, that being married to someone did not automatically make them of no risk to you.

“I suggest,” she said coldly, “you tell me why you are breaking into my room. I’m not sure how much your god catching you would make a difference if the reason you fell out my window was a bullet in your leg.”

He’d been so certain of his welcome – or was it just of not being caught? – that he had started forward. Now he paused, caution finally seeming to catch up with him. “You know,” he suggested pensively, “maiming me could become something of a bad habit.”

“I’ll stop when you stop breaking into places where you don’t belong,” Irene retorted calmly. “You first.” Even as she spoke she was thinking, working through the political ramifications of shooting  your king less than a week after marrying him. However she worked it, they couldn’t afford another war with Eddis which would undoubtedly result from Eugenides’ death. An injury though? Accidents happened, particularly when the young man was known for sneaking around places containing anxious guards.

Four days ago, after the wedding, they had both spent a shy and uncertain night exploring each other’s bodies, less confident in such a situation than either of them would have liked to admit in front of the Court. Now Irene was seriously considering which ankle she could hit with a bullet most easily. That was marriage when you were a ruler of Attolia.

“Some people might say that his wife’s bedroom was exactly where a man might belong,” Eugenides said carefully, but there was laughter in his voice. Even with a weapon pointed at him, he was still trying to tease her. Irene frowned irritably and wished briefly that she had married a man who knew when to take danger seriously.

“If you come through the door, you are more than welcome,” she informed him. ‘More than welcome’ might be a slight over-statement just now, but it would do. “But the door is over there. The window is for assassins and people who would prefer not to be seen. If you sneak in like an intruder, you should expect to be treated like one, and have your motives questioned. You’re lucky one of the guards didn’t shoot you.”

“Maybe you need better guards.” He grinned at her, as though hoping she would break off from her anger to laugh with him and enjoy the joke. 

The adrenalin, which had initially flooded her at the first sign of danger, had abated by now. If Irene was honest with herself, she knew there was no danger here. That didn’t get rid of her annoyance though; the fury that he casually broke into her room without her permission. This was  _ her  _ place,  _ her  _ rooms, and he had no right.

(The fact that as the King he had every right to go wherever he pleased only made that anger worse.)

For a moment the barrel of the gun wavered as she considered what to do with him. She had no right to harm him, not really, but that didn’t mean she felt like forgiving him right now. It wasn’t so very long ago that he had had her at his mercy; kidnapped and adrift in a boat. Now the situation was reversed, and while Irene was neither sure what she intended to do nor in a hurry to lose the advantage.

“Empty your pockets,” she ordered, buying time as she decided what to do next. “And drop any weapons you have.”

Eugenides looked honestly surprised by that one, as though it had only just occurred to him that she might truly consider him a danger. “Ah, Irene, you’re not thinking that I—“

“You don’t get to know what I’m thinking,” she said sharply. “Unless you want one foot to go with your one hand, empty your pockets. I might not be able to amputate here and now, but I’m told there are limits to what a physician can repair.”

Did he believe she would do it? There was shock written across his features, as though the realisation he might actually get hurt might finally be catching up to him. He lost his smile at any rate, begrudgingly emptying one pocket before glancing at her and waggling his other arm as though she might have forgotten it. “I’m going to need to reach over for the other side – or are you going to shoot me for that?”

“Just do as you’re told,” Irene snapped, and could not resist adding, “for once.” Really, it was hard to imagine Eugenides ever had made a habit of doing what he was told, even for the Queen of Eddis. She watched as the contents of his pockets piled up on the floor. There was nothing very unexpected there; a couple of small knives, a lock-picking kit, assorted junk more sorted to a small boy than the King of Attolia.

And a small box, of the type usually used to carry jewellery. Earrings perhaps. She stared at that for a moment, and then spoke on impulse, keeping the order in her voice. “Now your trousers.”

She hadn’t truly thought that out, hadn’t considered the difficulty the instruction might cause for a man with only one hand. Still she didn’t relent, even when he stared at her and wiggled his fingers as a reminder. “Irene...” he said, as though pleading with her to be reasonable. “That’s going to be difficult.”

“If you can climb around rooftops without help, you can undo your own clothes,” she told him flatly, refusing to back down. “If you persist in behaving like a common intruder, then I have no choice but to treat you as one and ensure you are carrying no weapons or poisons. Take them off. Now.”

He did struggle, cheeks flushing red in embarrassment and frustration as he fought with the fastenings, his fingers perhaps made clumsier by his consciousness of being observed. There did seem to be an inordinate amount of buttons holding his trousers in place where mere simple lacings would have sufficed and Irene wondered idly why on earth he would choose such garments when they clearly caused him so much difficulty. Perhaps the blame lay with his attendants for not considering what clothes might be best suited to their new king, but then she would have expected a man as vain as Eugenides to have had a hand in picking his own clothes. 

Either way, it was his responsibility to sort out, not hers. Irene just watched, taking a certain satisfaction in his soft curses at buttons that refused to open as he fought with them. It was a good ten minutes before he finally managed to release the last fastening and the trousers dropped.

Eugenides stood, flushed and humiliated, more by the obvious effort that task had cost him than by his state of undress. Clearly, he didn’t like being reminded of what he couldn’t do. She would remember that.

“Are you satisfied now?” he demanded, and Irene almost smiled at the edge of annoyance in his voice. Good, let him take  _ his  _ turn at being angry. He had certainly earned it.

“And your shirt.” She gestured at it with the gun, almost lazily, and had to restrain herself from laughing at his despairing glance down. The shirt, if anything, had more buttons than the trousers, many of them ridiculously tiny and fiddly.

“You do realise that could take all afternoon?” he asked, sounding as though he had no true hope of her relenting.

Irene shrugged, careful to keep the calm, detached note in her voice. “I’ll wait.” 

The shirt took longer. Delicate pearl buttons proved impossible to undo with one hand, and Eugenides fought a long, hard battle with them until it proved too much for his patience. Finally he swore, and slid his hook under them, breaking the thread of each one in turn and allowing the shirt to fall open. The button at his collar proved more resistant, sewn too tightly to easily slide anything under, and Irene wondered whether he would manage to choke himself or stab himself in the throat before she finally had mercy.

“Step back,” she told him, when it had become obvious that however long he struggled, he was unlikely to be successful in this endeavour. He looked at her, startled, and she gave a jerk of her head to indicate where she wanted him. “Against the wall.”

That actually meant him stepping sideways and back to avoid the window, but he seemed to have been shaken out of the type of mood where he might have been pedantic. She felt a surge of satisfaction as he finally –  _ finally! –  _ did as he was told without questioning or arguing, standing silently against the wall.

He was angry with her; that much was plain from his expression. What she had not expected was how fast his heart was beating, the flutter strong against her hand when she stepped close enough to set it against his chest.

“You’re frightened of me.” She made that a statement and not a question, sliding her hand up to toy with the collar button that had caused him so many issues.

“You cut off my  _ hand,”  _ he reminded her sullenly, as though she might have forgotten, the words gritted out as though the admittance cost him something. “And you’re pointing a gun at me. It doesn’t tend to make for a relaxing atmosphere.”

Any thought of actually harming him, as opposed to making him as frustrated as he made her, had been discarded long ago. Still, at that moment, there was something not entirely unsatisfactory in that statement and she laughed quietly, sliding a finger under his collar to feel the same strong, anxious pulse in his neck. “I should really make you remove that hook as well,” she mused, more to see his reaction than out of any true intent to do so.

She did not anticipate the quiet pained noise he made in response to that suggestion, clearly more unhappy about that than by the trousers and shirt together. “ _ Irene _ .” And now there was a note of true pleading in there, as though the cost of that suggestion might be more than a little embarrassment.

“If you insist on behaving like an intruder...” But the steel had gone out of the threat, Irene’s anger calming at the realization that, for now at least, she was the one in control of the situation. Eugenides might have managed to slip in through the window, but this time he had not been properly prepared to deal with her. “Strictly speaking, it’s a weapon.”

“Strictly speaking, it’s my hand,” Eugenides pointed out, a little of his spirit returning, but he did at least have the sense to move a little, holding his arm at what had to be an uncomfortable angle to keep it further away from her. “How would you like to be asked to remove it?”

“By now, I should be thinking that you’re getting used to it.” Irene said sweetly, and wasn’t sure whether she felt glad or sorry when he flinched. On the one side, there was something to be said for holding onto that control, that warning reminder that if Eugenides truly overstepped a line she could, she  _ would _ hurt him as he deserved. On the other... well, on the other she had cut off his hand, and she had yet to decide her feelings about a husband with that much reason to be afraid of her. 

The fingers still resting lightly against his throat felt his pulse speed again at the reminder, an assurance that there had been nothing faked about that flinch. She considered him for a moment; realising that now she held him here against the wall she had to decide what to  _ do _ with him. If she were honest, she had not thought this far ahead – a rarity for Irene, who usually planned at least seven steps in advance. But that pulse-point – the anxious beat and faint tremble against her fingers – was intriguing, and it did not take much forethought to replace hand with mouth, dipping her head to nip lightly at his neck.

She heard his slight indrawn breath, and felt him reach to steady himself against the wall with his only hand as her right hand drifted downwards. “Irene,” he said quietly, but it was neither a ‘stop’ nor said in a tone that suggested he might prefer her to go no further, so she ignored it.

“Irene,” he said again, and that had a more urgent note to it. She looked up, questioning and mildly annoyed by the interruption. He nodded towards her left hand.

“The gun,” he said, though his voice suggested he was simply reminding her rather than truly suffering any great anxiety about it. “It tends to interfere with the mood, don’t you think?”

Irene laughed at him for that, at the carefully casual note in his voice, as though he didn’t have strong feelings about it one way or another. Perhaps in another relationship it wouldn’t have been amusing, but this was the relationship they had. One way or another, they were going to have to learn to work with it. 

She considered a moment, choosing her next move carefully. The gun had not been a necessity for some time, but then she wasn’t yet ready to lose the feeling that she was the one controlling this situation either. She leaned to set the weapon down on a nearby counter, but kept her free hand splayed on his chest, as if to hold him against the wall. It was an illusion that fooled neither of them; even without a hook replacing one hand, he could have easily pushed her back had he truly wanted to escape. Instead, he stayed where she had placed him; the quick beat of his heart against her fingers no less gratifying whether the speed was due to fear, excitement, or a mix of the two.

“Did you think I might accidentally shoot you in the heat of the moment?” she asked, entertained by that thought far more than she should be.

He laughed back at her, though his laughter was still tinged with a falsely casual note. “With you? I worry far more about what you might do intentionally than by accident.”

“Fair point.” Her fingers moved back to his throat, and he closed his eyes, shivering lightly for a moment as she released the button that had plagued him so badly. “You need to tell your attendants to pick you better clothes.”

“Believe me, I’d already made note of that myself.” The dry note to his voice said that there was more to that than he was telling her, a story that she did not particularly care about right now, although later she might be more interested. For now, she was focused on guiding the loose sleeves until he could shrug them from his shoulders, letting the shirt fall in a crumpled heap at his feet.

And yet Irene was still fully dressed. Hardly fair – not that she had been looking at fairness in any part of this. Still – she reached back to undo her skirt, noting with some satisfaction that the fastening was rather more sensibly designed than Eugenides’ overly detailed shirt. Of course, having two hands helped – a few buttons, a light tug to undo a ribbon, and it was loose enough that she could allow it to fall to the floor.

(Of course, it might have taken longer to undress fully, but then she didn’t need to . There was, after all, no-one pointing a gun at her.)

Two days ago they had fumbled their way through their first night together, but that awkwardness had been down to learning each other’s bodies as much as the uncertainty of displaying their own. It was difficult when your mind was full of too old, too young, too scarred, and harder to watch a partner to learn their reactions and tender spots. 

But all Irene was concerned about at that moment was her own body and she had had decades to learn that. Years without anyone to cluck and fuss about where nice girls should and shouldn’t touch themselves – years since anyone would have  _ dared _ . If she viewed Eugenides only as the tool she was using to pleasure herself with, it was far easier to move with confidence; to grasp his erection with one hand and guide it to the spot between her legs, knowing without hesitation exactly where she wanted it to rub as she pressed back against it.

Eugenides groaned quietly, and shifted against the wall, hips jerking slightly as though unable to resist trying to speed things along. For a moment he moved his hand from the wall as though to pull her closer. Irene gave him a warning look and then, as a thought occurred to her, moved her free hand to his chin, pinching it lightly between thumb and forefinger as she raised his head to look at her.

This time the shiver was a full body one, and Eugenides swallowed convulsively, arms going back to the wall, slightly raised in silent surrender. He didn’t cringe away from her, but his hips stilled, and she was certain she hadn’t imagined the glint of fear in his eyes.

“Better,” she approved quietly, holding his chin there, making him look at her. “I didn’t need the gun at all, did I?”

He smiled at her – and somehow, despite his fearful reaction, that too was genuine. “I was wondering when you’d work that out.”

She laughed at him softly, although it really shouldn't have been funny at all. Her fingers stroked along his cheek, watching as he shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment, even as she allowed him to dip inside her briefly – only for a moment and then back out. His breath caught, and she felt him jerk against her hand, but he did not attempt to reach for her again.

“Good,” she said softly, her words an approving murmur. “This goes at my speed, not yours.”

Eugenides gave the slightest nod, eyes half closing, keeping his arms in that half-raised position as though to convey as loudly as possible that he was of no threat to her right now.

Her speed, as it happened, was an agonisingly slow one. She had no intention of rushing when she had the time not to, the time to enjoy the press of his body where previously only fingers had explored thoroughly. She teased him, guiding him inside her for a second at a time, allowing only the tip and little more to enter until he was panting with the effort of going no further. From time to time he shifted, trying to deepen that movement, trying to relieve the effort of waiting, but a gentle pinch of his chin or fingers stroking down his cheek was all the reminder he needed to still again.

When she kissed him he drank from her mouth with the urgency and desperation of a man dying in the desert.

She took mercy on him when she felt him start to tremble, his knees shaking with the effort of holding him in one fixed position for too long. She was grateful, for once, for her tallness, for the extra height which allowed her to lower herself onto him, still retaining control of the movement as she held him back against the wall. It was far easier like that to guide the movement, find the angle which felt most pleasing and  use it, rather than depending on someone else’s ability to guess from her reaction where she wanted him to be.

For a man she still thought of as barely more than a boy, his stamina was surprising. She had half-expected that once they had moved on, past teasing touches, he would too quickly find his peak. It must have cost him to hold on, even that bit longer, past the point where Irene gasped and shuddered, her hands tightening convulsively where she held him. Pleasure took the place of control for a moment, and she felt his response - the sharp indrawn breath, his body pressing back eagerly against hers.

He didn’t seem able to control the last desperate jerk of his hips, and when he reached for her this time it was more the grasp of a man who needed something to hang onto lest he fall. She didn’t stop him but caught him, guiding them both safely to the floor in a tangle that seemed to have far more arms and legs than two people should be able to account for. 

“I’m glad,” she commented, “to see that given sufficient motivation you can in fact do as you are told.”

For a moment Eugenides looked startled, and then he laughed, head resting against her shoulder, too spent to attempt untangling himself just yet. “From time to time, it has been known.”

Irene ran a hand through his hair, combing through the tiny curls at the nape of his neck, and tried to choose her words carefully. In the end, it was easiest to be direct. “You’re still afraid of me.”

“Oh yes.” He agreed to that placidly, as though she had stated that the sky was blue or some other such obvious statement.

“And yet you go out of your way to infuriate me.” She wasn’t yet entirely sure she was ready to forgive him for breaking into her rooms, an idiotic action that could have got him killed for entirely no reason.

“Don’t take it personally. I go out of my way to infuriate everyone. I’m certain Eddis told you that.”

It wasn’t the answer she wanted and she tugged on the hairs she had hold of, pulling until he was forced to look up and meet her eyes.  _ “Why?” _ she demanded. “Why, if you were afraid, would you work so hard to be aggravating? Why can’t you ever just do as you are supposed to do? What does it take to get you to actually behave?”

Eugenides sighed, and actually seemed to consider his answer seriously for once, rolling off her and propping himself on his elbows on the carpet as he thought about it.

“You know that my gods betrayed me,” he said finally. “In fact you were the one to tell me that. You know that they put into place plans to see me captured and—” he glanced ruefully at his hook, shrugged slightly, and went on “—and captured again.”

Irene nodded, unsure where this was going.

“And I did nothing to deserve that. I didn’t offend the gods, there was nothing I could have done to avert it. The only thing that would have prevented it is to be born someone who they didn’t require to use in that manner. And if the gods require it for something they deem to be a greater good, there is nothing I can do to prevent that happening again.”

Irene opened her mouth to protest that this was hardly relevant. Eugenides held up his hand to prevent the interruption. “And yet, knowing this, I still leave them sacrifices. I don’t go out of my way to offend the gods but – well.” There was humour in his eyes as he looked towards her. “You’ve seen me throw tantrums at my gods. I imagine most people would consider than offensive, yes?”

Silently, Irene nodded again. The last such tantrum had resulted in every window in the palace breaking. She had thought it had killed him. And yet it had not seemed to have a noticeable effect on Eugenides’ behaviour.

“And so I climb,” he said, and gestured towards the window, “knowing that I will only fall if my god chooses to drop me, and on the day he does there will be nothing in the world I can do about it.” He looked up at her again, humour in his eyes. “I may fear you, My Queen, but can you be more frightening than the gods themselves? I don’t believe you can, and if they cannot force me into good behaviour, I fancy there is little hope for you.” There was mockery in his voice, but it was loving mockery, and he caught her hand as he spoke, pressing his lips to it lightly.

To someone used to ruling by fear – to  _ needing _ to rule by fear – it was bewildering. “I don’t understand,” Irene said bluntly, but she did not remove her fingers from his grasp.

“If you spend your life choosing your actions through fear, then fear will make a slave of you,” Eugenides said, and shrugged slightly, struggling for words to explain a concept bigger than he was. “I may do as I wish, as long as I am prepared to take the consequences. I may be afraid of those consequences –" And afraid was surely an understatement, Irene thought, remembering his white, set face when the Medes had made their capture of him “—but I still have the choice to do those things. And the freedom to do them is worth more than the safety of not doing them.”

“That is not a peaceful way to live,” Irene pointed out, after a long moment of thinking that through.

“No,” Eugenides agreed cheerfully, and kissed her hand again, running a finger lightly over the palm. “I’m sure you’re going to spend a lot of time very angry at me. Most people seem to.” He grinned at her, unrepentant even now, naked and sprawled on her carpet. “But, usually, I seem to get by.”

She sighed, foreseeing a life of frustrating arguments ahead of her. “Remind me why I married you.”

“To seal a peace deal with Eddis to prevent war, and protect both countries from the Mede,” Eugenides answered promptly. “And because you love me.” He placed a third kiss in the centre of her palm and tucked her fingers around it, before he looked up, eyes full of laughter. “And because I love you.”

And that, at least, it was hard to argue with.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
